Hid Wounded Reb

by J. L. Salter

  The visitor shook her extended hand without much grip and she obviously didn’t have much practice. “I’m Diane Sutton. We’re renting the farm house.” She motioned with her head.

  “Of course! Sorry. I’ve seen you as I drive by. That black blur over there is Perra. She’s just over a year old, which explains a lot.”

  Diane understood. “I saw y’all up here at the edge of the woods.”

  “She keeps bringing deer bones back to the cabin. I’d like to find the rest of the carcasses if I could. Might be some antlers there. My buddy, Wade, uses them to make knife handles.”

  “The name’s familiar. Does Wade live around here?” Diane looked left and right.

  “Somewhere near Cincinnati, but he has three acres and a big house way over there past these woods, the upper meadow, and more woods.” Kelly’s arm unfolded lazily as she pointed.

  “Is he a big guy?” asked Diane.

  Kelly nodded. “Loud too.”

  “Yeah, I met him. He seems like quite a character.”

  “Teddy bear. Heart of gold. Strong as an ox.” Sounded trite, but all were accurate. “We’re good buddies.”

  Diane glanced around. “When we got here, the cold had already set in. These last few days are the first warm weather we’ve seen.”

  “Everybody says it’ll turn cold again pretty soon, but I don’t see how.”

  Perra raced back and forth on the hillside, hunting various trails; her nose processed a lot of information.

  “Where are you headed? Maybe I’ll walk along.”

  “I was just checking out this sinkhole over here. Our landlord is going to clear out the junk and then fill it in.”

  “I didn’t even know there was a hole there.” The vines, brush, briars and weeds had pretty well taken it over, and Diane stepped carefully. It was about thirty feet across and maybe eighteen feet deep, with a small opening on the far side that went deeper, past a rock ledge. Enough space for groundhogs or skunks, but not large enough for a human. “Wow, it’s huge! That’d be a nasty surprise if you tumbled down into it at night.”

  “Yeah, well, you ought to stay out of these woods at night anyway. Besides what can trip you, cut you — or what you could fall into — these woods have lots of critters, including coyotes.”

  Diane didn’t appear overly alarmed. “We’ve seen a few deer down in the low hayfield.” She shrugged and then steered Kelly toward the farm house. Soon they were descending the slope of the broad hill. “Come on inside for a minute and let me introduce you to Joe, if he’s back from the store.”

  Thinking Mitch might arrive soon, Kelly scanned north towards her cabin. “Sure, for a minute or two.” Perra realized her mistress had turned. The dog cocked her long ears and held one front leg bent slightly. Suddenly, she began leaping like a miniature gazelle over the hay in the field now covering the ancient river bed.

  “Diane, I’m a little embarrassed that I’ve never even stopped to talk during the few months you’ve been here…”

  “Oh, I know what you mean. Every time I’ve seen you, one of us is flying… sometimes both. We can catch up now. Come on in for a minute.”

  Kelly had become quite familiar with the farm house during the four weeks Mitch had rented it. The Suttons had changed a lot of things. “I spent some time in here last fall. Looks much better now.”

  Diane nodded as a vehicle arrived outside the farm house. “That must be Joe now.” Diane shifted in her seat and called out, “Come meet our neighbor on the hill.”

  He entered the living room.

  “Kelly Randall.” She shook his large, firm hand. They exchanged a few words. Then Joe nodded toward the plastic grocery bag he’d brought in. He shrugged and held up his right hand with fingers spread wide. That, plus the expression on his face, indicated: Sorry, we’ll speak later… got to put this in the fridge. Kelly could see it was milk and something else with condensation.

  Joe left to put them away.

  Diane remembered she was the hostess. “You care for something to drink?”

  Kelly shook her head. “No thanks, I can’t stay but a minute. Mitch is meeting me.”

  “Are you two married?”

  “Heavens no.” It came out quicker and louder than Kelly had intended.

  “I’d seen a man with you at the store and in your Jeep a few times. That’s him?”

  Kelly nodded. “Bill Mitchell. Call him Mitch. We work together here and there and we’re great friends, and we spend a lot of, uh, time together. You know.”

  Diane nodded and smiled.

  “Mitch rents from an old lady named Dorcus. It’s on a bluff above the water near here. Out past the area folks call Sleepy Hollow.” Kelly glanced around the room. “How long have you and Joe been married?”

  “As long as I can remember.” Diane chuckled. “It’s funny. Sometimes it seems forever, and occasionally it feels like it was just a short time ago. Thirty-seven years in a few months.”

  “Whew! That’s a good chunk of time.” Kelly started to ask something, but didn’t. Nobody knew what made one marriage work and another fail.

  After they moved onto the front porch and sat on the swing, Kelly craned her neck occasionally to check for Mitch up at her cabin. “What do you two do?”

  “I work downtown… office stuff. Joe worked full-time before we moved. He retired early.”

  Kelly wondered why, but didn’t inquire. “So, what brought you and Joe here?”

  “Mom was having health problems. Seemed like a good time to pull up Louisiana roots.”

  Kelly gave Diane a brief rundown about her divorce from Professor Rob over four years ago, and why she’d sold Aunt Mildred’s old house. “It hurt too much staying there alone. I needed a new place, a different place… my own space. With no ghosts of the schmuck I’d babied through grad school.” She realized her voice had gotten louder. “Sorry, sometimes when I think about how he conned me into supporting him through two degrees, I just get a little…”

  “Angry?” Diane spotted a SUV driving slowly south on Macon Circle. “Is that your Mitch?”

  “Yeah, he probably just left the cabin hunting for me.” Kelly glanced at her left wrist out of habit, momentarily forgetting she’d not put on her watch that morning. She waved to catch Mitch’s attention.

  Mitch pulled onto the Macon Circle shoulder, which doubled as a driveway for the farm house. Kelly introduced him to Diane, who sent him inside to meet Joe. Shortly, Mitch and Joe exited the house and gravitated to the side yard where Adirondack chairs faced up toward the wide green hill.

  The segregated pairs talked quietly as Perra ran about the place, occasionally touching base with Mitch in the side yard and Kelly on the front porch.

  In one ear, Kelly heard Mitch regale Joe with the information he’d recently learned about Wolf Creek Dam. It cost $81 million to build it in the 1940s, the government spent over $96 million to repair it in the late 1970s, and the estimate for overhauling it the second time was around $500 million. Joe seemed suitably impressed, though not with the cost effectiveness of the dam.

  Diane mentioned she’d seen someone peering in the farm house windows.

  “Was it a guy?”

  “Didn’t get a good look, just a fleeting glance. Wasn’t even completely sure I saw anything.”

  “But assuming you did, are you positive it was a person and not an animal?”

  “Well if it was an animal, it would have to be a Sasquatch or something.” Diane pointed toward the side windows near the front of the house. “That first window is nearly five feet off the ground.”

  “Well, I hope it’s not J.D. looking for more trouble.”

  “Who’s J.D.?”

  “Long story, tell you later. Couldn’t be him anyway. He’s off in a different county.”

  “Yeah, this peeper, whoever it was, was very short… hardly able to see over the window ledge.”

  “Perra’s been barking at something recently. Might be this peeper. Personally, I think
I’d rather face down a coyote or bobcat.”

  “I don’t want to face down anything.” Diane shivered theatrically.

  “Does Joe have a gun?”

  “We both do.”

  “Better keep them loaded and handy.”

  “But locked away when our grandkids are around.”

  “Of course.”

  The sun lowered behind the trees atop the broad hill as the two men faced the woods. Mitch said something to Joe, then got up and walked around to the porch. “Kelly, have you considered eating anything?”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “How can it be that I’m always the only one hungry when it’s supper time?” Mitch moaned. Joe came up behind him to lend his support.

  “I figure it’s just better to let you mention it first,” said Kelly, with a cheesy smile. “Since you brought it up, then it’s your treat.” She eyed everyone. “How about pizza?”

  He looked at Joe, who shrugged. “Okay with us. You call it in — me and Joe will get it.”

  By the time the guys returned with the hot pizza, Diane had paper plates and beverages ready. Joe and Mitch pulled their Adirondacks over near the front porch, and all four ate in the falling dusk.

  In parts of April, dusk fell very cool. As they made their way inside, Kelly began to wonder about the time. “I just remembered Gato’s still inside the cabin.” The cat needed kibble. Though Perra had eaten several pizza crusts, she also needed her special pouched dog food, so Kelly made their excuses. It was time for her posse to head back to the cabin.

  Later, back at the cabin, after Kelly had dealt with the animals’ food, Mitch was about to leave when he halted and went back near the table where Kelly was standing. He reached so completely around he could cross his arms behind her back. If he’d squeezed at all, Kelly couldn’t inhale. But he didn’t. Mitch just held her tightly, comfortably, everything of hers fitting into everything of his. “I love holding you.”

  Kelly nodded — as much as she could move her head, tucked against his upper chest — and then she gazed at Mitch’s face. Her eyes said “me, too” though no words came out. Gato strolled by and rubbed against all four human legs in a lazy circle.

  Mitch slowly untangled his arms and let his hands trail down along Kelly’s sides, until they rested on her hips. He kissed her lips lightly. “If I don’t leave now, there’s no telling what somebody might do.”

  “Yeah, you better get outta here. It’s late.”

  ****

  The cold snap arrived on Friday the thirteenth and stayed all weekend.

  Though Kelly didn’t pay attention to the actual thermometer readings, it certainly got cold enough — and the temperature stayed that low long enough — to kill flowers, sprouts, bulbs, bushes, tree blossoms… and beginning gardens. Those anonymous pundits who always expected a cold snap were right again. Kelly heard one old-timer say he even remembered a snowfall in May one year, which sounded unlikely to her, but Kentucky weather could be freaky.

  Chapter Six

  Monday, April 16

  Kelly had just finished a grilled cheese sandwich when Perra’s whimpering signaled what to do with the few pieces of remaining crust. Kelly put away the cheese and bread and moved to her recliner with a glass of juice and her stack of papers.

  It started 144 years ago. Hidden among oak trees up on the hill — a single grave for the dead Confederate soldier. Kelly studied Pop’s few cemetery-related pages. There was a crude chart showing graves in the old section, plus a typed list of the few which had been positively located. Obviously, the people who prepared those sheets had already poured over local records and interviewed old-timers with knowledge of the place. Yet it was woefully incomplete.

  The old section hardly had a straight line; each digging had apparently just been eye-balled. Some rows were only partial, and hardly any had the same number of graves. It was best comprehended as about ten rows of about thirty spaces each for a rough total of three hundred.

  Of those, about one hundred plots had been definitely located, yet they came up with just over sixty names. At the bottom of the list were seven other individuals known to be buried somewhere in the old section, but their graves could not be pin-pointed. Plus about thirty more spaces were known to be graves, yet no idea of who was buried in them.

  According to the list, some unknowns had crude stones, but many had no markers of any sort — they were only recognized as graves by very slight depressions in the ground.

  The chart also had huge areas with no graves indicated. Those spaces were believed to hold approximately two hundred more bodies. No markers or any surviving evidence that the dirt or grass had ever been disturbed, yet no new graves had been undertaken. A macabre pun. When asked, Pop had shrugged and said folks thought bodies were buried there. Evidently subsequent generations observed proper respect by maintaining substantial space which tradition said were likely graves. Three or four generations of diggers had properly begun the newest holes away from graves which, back then, were likely still visible.

  Kelly had hoped to map out clusters of the old section’s graves by their dates, to show how the cemetery grew over the years. However, it was merely educated guesswork since so little information was available.

  Logically, caretakers gradually cleared more trees as additional space was needed. Someone had probably built a rough fence around the burgeoning cemetery by the middle 1870s. The fence perimeter was likely expanded about every generation or so, when its condition and the cemetery’s obvious growth indicated such need.

  The chart suggested a vague physical pattern. The dead Rebel was as close as could be to absolute dead center of the old part. Hmm. Dead center. The second known date was 1872 and not far away. By the time of the third known date, 1877, the cemetery was at least four rows wide and an average of twelve graves long — approximately forty-eight plots. The next ten known dates were evenly dispersed to the Reb’s north and south. By 1899, the cemetery had at least six full rows averaging sixteen graves each; the final grave in the old section was added in about 1940.

  The old part had physical space for a total of about three hundred graves. With slightly over one hundred marked, that left nearly two hundred probables, which were respected only because oral tradition said bodies were likely buried there. It was difficult to imagine a time with such little red tape, so few records — such scant evidence those folks ever existed. A person died, the bereaved family asked to use the cemetery on the Butler’s property. In the earliest days, one of Pop’s great-uncles often made the caskets while the grieving family dug a grave. They conveyed the body by wagon up to the cemetery on the hill, maybe a preacher said some words, and the mourners placed a rock. On went the business of survival. No coroners, no permits, and — for at least the first several decades — likely no funeral director.

  Kelly again examined the chart. All those individuals — flesh and blood, with faces and names — who scraped out some kind of rough life in Kentucky’s hard hills were no longer even remembered, except by the grassy space left to honor their probable remains.

  Kelly was beginning to understand Pop’s interest in compiling a history of the place.

  ****

  It was time to tour the cemetery again. Kelly went by it often enough — her driveway was within 150 feet of its southeast corner. But she’d only been inside the fence a few times. The early mid-April afternoon was still cool so Kelly wore her windbreaker. She brought a tablet and pen, along with the cemetery chart and list Pop had loaned her.

  The cemetery’s new section was professionally surveyed and neatly laid out, with seventy-five precise spaces, six by nine feet. Kelly entered the current gate, at the west end, and walked through the addition to the old part. First to the unnamed soldier who started it all in 1863 — smack dab in the center of the section.

  Right next to his original grave — marked only with a blank, irregular rock after the war ended — was a modern, dignified, white marble headstone, courtesy of the fed
eral [union] government, through the efforts of a local historian. It was marked on one side Unknown CSA and on the other side:

  .

  Died of wounds

  Battle of Dutton Hill

  Mar. 30, 1863

  .

  The inscription was pretty much everything anybody knew about him, except that he spent his last pain-wracked night in the Butler cabin attic, about four hundred feet down the hill.

  Kelly wondered what his family — likely in Tennessee, most people agreed — thought when that Confederate never came home. Surely they learned, some time later, from someone in his unit that he’d died because of the Dutton Hill battle.

  She pondered whether his family had speculated how he died. Did he suffer? Did anyone treat his wounds? Did he have time to make his peace? Perhaps they guessed he’d stopped somewhere on his way home. Maybe they wondered how far he’d gotten. Did he make it out of Pulaski County? Could he get through the Yankees in Wayne County? Did he reach the Tennessee border? Kelly figured the family might have found a degree of solace if they imagined he ended up buried in Tennessee soil. But maybe they had realized he’d never left Kentucky. Perhaps they’d been told where he was buried.

  Maybe Johnny Reb’s companion had been able to get back home and contact Johnny’s family. Then he could have explained they were both taken in by a helpful, though rightly terrified, family whose cabin they stumbled upon before Johnny collapsed, possibly falling from his horse in their front yard. Maybe his companion told the family he’d stayed at the cabin long enough to see Johnny buried before the next dawn. Such news would give the family some peace. Maybe the companion reported their husband/father/son/brother was buried in a nice shady spot among oaks, maples, and dogwoods up on a pretty hillside with a nice view.

  But then again, maybe the companion didn’t even know Johnny… or hardly did. Johnny, we hardly knew ye. Perhaps the companion never got home, wherever home was. If he did get home, possibly he never got to the home ground of dead Johnny. Maybe he tried to contact the family but couldn’t find them; they might’ve been burned out by raiders. Or possibly the companion didn’t even try to find them. Maybe survival was foremost on his mind.